


All This And Heaven Too

by dimrooms



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: M/M, Neah trying to be a good uncle, he's trying allen i swear, pianist Allen, seminarian Link
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 15:23:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14287833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dimrooms/pseuds/dimrooms
Summary: Where his textbooks fulfilled him with the knowledge he was hungry for, the creature before him reminded him of the world past the crowded margins of his books, the never ending revolving of it all that he shut himself away from. The brightness of one’s eyes and timber of their voice, the warmth of their body; human qualities Link found were not as difficult to navigate as he’d felt in the past, but were admirable feats of beauty and resilience.Reclaimed by his uncle and torn away from the only life he knew, Allen struggles to find a place for himself in the world when he's moved to London under Neah's orders. Link, a year away from ordination, finds in Allen what he never believed could truly be his. When both of them - each lost in his own way - realize it isn't quite friendship between them anymore, Link must make a choice - abandon his studies so close to graduation, or remain as friends and let his only chance at love pass him by.





	All This And Heaven Too

Early mornings suited Link well. With only the pre-dawn moon sitting low and gauzy in the sky as his only companion, Link prayed the angelus and practiced his morning meditation without a sound or thought to any earthly being. His knees protested the unforgiving wood floors and bare ankles suffered the cold draft of an old room, but the pain only sharpened his mind to his prayers, and he went on to mouth them with reverent intent. 

    Had Link ventured to sleep past four and instead woke together with his peers at seven, prayers and meditation would have been done together in the chapel, where one might find companionship in sleep addled eyes and the soft intonation of true devotion. But for Link, pious in his own quiet way, since childhood kneeling at his humble bed created the clearest path for speaking to God. 

    The same habit rendered hallways and bathrooms free of any needless bustling as well. After crossing himself and lifting himself off the floor, Link slipped into the hall and into the bathroom to shower and shave. With no strictly pastoral duties due that morning, he forwent his white collar and instead dressed casually in a maroon jumper over a pristine white button up, and a pair of brown slacks pressed neatly down the center. His leather shoes and satchel both shined with the effort of a man devoted to practicality and punctuality. 

    Besides his prayers, Link tended to other responsibilities every morning, including baking the seminary’s daily bread. Had he his own way, Link would prefer it was baked once every morning and again in the afternoon, but his studies and assignments within the Westminster parish demanded much of him, and he was never one to impart only half of his energy into something he took pride in. In addition to the bread, preparing breakfast always fell, agreeably and without want for anything less, to Link.

    He padded down into the kitchens and laid his coat and satchel over a chair before donning an apron and rolling up his sleeves. He kneaded dough, just as he had every morning for the past six years of his stay at Allen Hall, until the sun rose a little higher in the sky and the flimsy moon finally disappeared as if a vapor. Behind him, the hearth kept a steady heat on his back, and in the air hung the scent of freshly baked bread as the hour drew nearer to breakfast. A shuffling in the dining hall, books settled onto tables, creaking chairs, and the hushed voices of men, told him of the time. 

    Link nodded a deep greeting to his superiors as they led themselves into the kitchen to take away the warm bread, coffee, and jams. They offered him the wise, care worn looks of content fathers he breathed every breath for some mornings.

     After slipping into his coat and slinging his satchel across his chest, his colleagues would shuffle in as well and finish the eggs and bacon, but Link, his own breakfast in one hand, will have ducked out of the building and begun his way, not yet to campus that morning, but to the elementary school that sat nestled beside the red brick body of the Westminster Cathedral. 

    As a seminarian at the tail end of his studies and no longer that child that knelt peacefully beside his bed every morning and night, Link had no choice but to pay painful attention to his early morning habits and what they still said about him. Though dutiful and always obliging, his capabilities dipped low and with glaring consciousness when life as a seminarian called for the compassionate sociability essential to a good priest. It wasn’t necessarily that Link lacked a genuine want for a connection between himself and his parishioners, but that he’d failed to cultivate the necessary skills to do so early on.

         Instead, Link had maintained a fervent dedication to his studies. For years he kept his nose in his books until it was too late — the world continued to spin without him, and his years stacked one on top of each other, each as unremarkable as the last.

    What Link _could_ do, and did readily with the same genuinity he applied to his studies, was bake his colleagues their daily bread and recite his prayers with every wanting fiber of his body every hour that called for it. He could, too, spend those same energies enriching the lives of the school children he often visited in the mornings, and again in the afternoons when time allowed, or when the duty to speak to them fell to him.

    Almost an uncharacteristic fit, Link’s presence within the school had first come as an assignment and lingered out of a true fondness he had for the children, and only thrived by virtue of their mutual attachment to him. Where his stiff character limited the interactions he might have with adult parishioners, crouched low to miniature tables or even cross legged on rainbow rugs, his observational character paired well with the quiet workings of a child’s mind. They adored him for his thoughtfulness and he for their boundless minds and hearts that convinced him, when nothing else could, of his suitability for priesthood. 

… 

When occasion called, Link played the part of some stern, unwavering character he recognized as himself but inflated parts of. Where circumstance otherwise never called for, the natural depth of his voice grew hard and his hands very much the same. This time it was Timothy, the sticky, four armed fifth grader that called into being Link’s character. When one arm was finally pried off, the other wretched itself free of his grip and held fast in a never ending struggle to escape.      

  “ _Timothy_ ,” Link warned. “I _will_ get Emilia.” 

    “So! Then do it! I want to see you try."

    "No, you _don'_ _t_ ," he spoke again in that unfamiliar voice before sighing. "There are so many other ways to get my attention, Timothy. Why don't you work on earning good grades to show me when I come visit rather act like a child half your age? I _know_  you’re better than this."

    "I earn good grades,” Timothy said in a small voice. For a moment his grip slackened and Link took the opportunity to wedge his hands between Tim's arms where they wrapped around his neck.

    "Oh, yes? On what? Show me." This, more than any threat of punishment it seemed, finally proved convincing enough and Tim let go of Link's neck to kick off his back. Digging through his mess of a school bag procured a spelling test. Written on one corner in red was a ninety-eight, which he pointed out to Link smugly. 

    "Actually, this is very good, Tim,” Link said as he looked at it.

    The boy’s confidence faltered in the face of Link’s sincerity and he slouched, replaced his smirk with a frown. Before he could open his mouth to say anything else, St. Vincent de Paul’s assistant principal appeared in the doorway behind them.  

    “Good morning, Mr. Link. Timothy.” Ms. Faye held her clasped hands before her, curls and uniform crisp. Where Link and the head principle butted heads, he and Bridget Faye managed to work well together often, from planning the children’s outings, to course material, to lunches. Getting those plans approved (or surviving unaltered) by Komui Lee was another matter altogether — one they often tackled and won together.

    “Ms. Faye, good morning.” Link lifted himself off the floor and braced Timothy with a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Is there anything I could help you with before I leave?” 

    “There is — you don’t happen to have any musical talent, do you?

    “I don’t, no,” Link shook his head minutely.

    “Might you know anyone who does?” 

    “Ah - I’m afraid not, but I can certainly ask around. Is there a problem with Mr. Noise?” Noise Marie was the school’s well-loved music teacher, recently married to a young teacher of linguistics, Miranda Lotto. 

    “Not quite a _problem_ , more of a slight inconvenience. His wife went into labor late last night, and I’m afraid he won’t be able to teach class this morning. We’ll be needing a replacement for the next few weeks, as well.”

    “I see. I can certainly entertain the children for their morning period, but I’m happy to help in any other way that I can.”

    “I would be incredibly grateful if you could, Mr. Link, thank you. I’m sorry to inconvenience you.”

    Link shook his head in the negative. “Not at all.”

    “Very well,” she nearly sighed, relieved. The tension in her slim shoulders bled away, and finally her attention fell again to Timothy, held still by Link’s hand on his shoulder. "Shouldn’t you be on your way to class, Timothy?”

    Caught under her gaze, he demurred. Any more cheekiness in front of Link would disagree with his plans. “Yes, Ms. Faye.”

    “I’ll walk you to class on my way, Tim,” Link offered. "Good day, Ms. Faye," he said on his way out the door.  

    “Good day. Thank you again.”

    “Of course.” Out of sight and no longer within earshot, Timothy sprang away from Link’s hold and bounded down the hall away from him with a maniacal laugh echoing behind him. Link could only roll his eyes and jog after him

....        

The belly of the Westminster Cathedral was a glittering hall of marble ceilinged in a vast, unlit night. Beneath the starless sky of the nave sat Link, content in the tremors of devotional meditation, a sweet reverberation that reached his bones and lifted him from the ground.

    The keen look in his intelligent eyes didn't suffer from the veil of deep reflection as he observed, with distant curiosity, a restless figure hovering outside the gates of the chapel ahead. With golden head bowed, he watched through his lashes the relentless shift, tilt of a head from the votive candles to the silk-shrouded tabernacle as if caught in flighty consideration.

    Link remained settled so deeply into his prayers he felt far removed from his seat in the cathedral, and thus from any responsibility. That is, until a thought disrupted him and he grew cold under the weight of apprehension.

    The morning’s trip to the cathedral was already an effort in diversion that until then had gone unspoiled. After keeping the schoolchildren busy for their first music period, Link opted for a detour to the Westminster Cathedral with the reasoning that it was no detour at all, but a reasonable alternative to returning home before the day’s classes began. 

        What Link had done that morning and many others before had started out innocently enough, but grew to be a problem in his more recent years at Allen Hall. As a young seminarian, Link found himself influenced by steadfast determination and an optimism he had not been able to recreate since. Frustration was no sign of glaring inadequacy, but something he believed all young seminarians must feel at some point early on in their studies. When this feeling didn’t fall away after his second year, Link’s bad habit worsened. He found himself immersed in his books or sitting alone in pews - at Allen Hall or here at the Cathedral - far too often.

    None of this had escaped the attention of his mentors, and it is at this moment their words rang clearer than ever. The visitor hovering outside the gates of The Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament was the perfect opportunity for practice, and Link has never been one to shy away from orders. 

    Nurtured by the words of his prayers as he mouthed them, a keen resolution kindled in him. When the last intonation passed his lips, Link stood to leave pews with a groan of well-worn wood.

    He wasn't sure what he expected, exactly, but when his hand at the stranger’s elbow revealed alert, silver-hued eyes, Link was surprised. Baggy pants and a ratty sweater over a crumpled shirt obscured the lithe lines of youth, but a look into the stranger’s face revealed the uncertainty of a child. Link found his voice, deep as it was hushed.

    “Forgive me, I’ve noticed you’ve been quite restless.”

    “No, no,” he insisted, as if to deflect sympathy in light of his shame. “I didn’t realize - was I being too much of a distraction?”

    “Not at all.” Link shook his head softly. “I was wondering if I might be of any help, actually.”

    “Oh.” Embarrassed, his gaze fell away, back to the flickering light of the candles. “Well, I,” he started, but his words abandoned him. “I came in to light a candle,” he said finally with some confidence. "Pray for some guidance, something like that. But it’s been so long,” he offered Link a wane smile and sincere eyes, “I’m a little lost.”

    “I see.” A well of calm rose over Link. Of solemn understanding, deep and near sorrowful. The blanket of apprehension from before disappeared. He gestured to the stand of unlit candles. “May I?”

    “Oh yes, _please_. I have some stray bus fair, I think, uhm…”

    Link picked out two candles and handled the lighting stick. The change clinked softly into the charity box. “Here we are.”

    “Thank you,” he said with a kind of light hearted reverence as he accepted his candle the light and. With candles lit, both took a moment to watch its miniature flame flicker in his palm.

    “There’s no one way to pray,” Link began, his bearings coming easily to him now, “but following the ACTS might help you until it comes naturally.”

    “ACTS?”

    Link felt eyes fall on him, but did not turn to return the gaze when he replied. This was a lesson he’d taught to many children before and thus realized how childish it might seem in this situation. “Ah, yes - an acronym. Adoration, confession, thanksgiving, and supplication.”

    “Is that something you teach to children?”

    Link faltered just slightly. “— _Yes_ , it can be.”

    “Fitting enough,” his stranger said derisively, almost to himself. Link gave him a curious look, but said nothing. “Right, do I close my eyes?”

    “If you wish to, yes."

    With a deep breath, he shut his eyes and put himself at the mercy of Link’s voice. He took this in with a familiar feeling of control owing to practice, but was still unnerved by the intimacy of the moment and how much he felt he had intruded, even in his goodwill. He looked back down at his own candle and spoke to its little flame.

    “The key to a well rounded prayer is to speak from your heart. Indulge, just for a moment, in adoration of our Lord.” Somewhere between his words, Link’s eyes slipped closed as he fell into the easy practice of prayer. “Ask for His forgiveness so that you might in good grace come closer to Him.” A warmth suffused across his chest from his belly. “Give thanks for His guidance, His protection, His love.” The gentle fervor from before returned and warmed him in ways only sunshine can. “Ask Him. Whatever pulled you in through those doors, express with the most sincere tones of your heart.”

    A few moments passed before his stranger broke the silence between them with another deep breath. It came deeply from within him. A gentle curiosity swayed Link to open his eyes and study the young man’s face. He meant to catch him in a private moment of exaltation, but instead found his expression twisted into a wry smile.

    Instantly ashamed of intruding, Link looked away. Slid his candle into place and crossed himself instead. After the young man did the same, he looked into Link’s face with an expression of such sincerity he felt compelled to match, albeit unsettled by.

    A gloved hand is offered to him as he ventured, “I have to thank you…”

    “Link,” he finished for him, accepting his handshake. “Howard Link.” 

    “Allen Walker,” his stranger introduced himself. A smile very different from the one before graced his lips. “I’m very lucky to have run into you, Mr. Link.”

    “It was no problem at all,” he replied automatically with a dismissive shake of his head. “It was my pleasure, in fact. If you find yourself in the same place again, please don’t hesitate to come visit. Mass is held everyday from seven to one, if it suits you.”

    “Is it?” Allen asked faintly, thoughtfully, looking past the gates and to the tabernacle once again. “An early mass… that sounds lovely, actually. I can only imagine.”

    When he turned to Link again, the lightness and intensity of his eyes startled him once more. Link found the oddity of his white hair and lashes nearly grotesque in the half-light the longer he looked at him, but the softness to his face and uneven bow of his lips struck him endearingly.

    “Tomorrow morning at seven it is, Mr. Link,” Allen said with a resolute nod.

    “I’m happy to hear that,” he replied sincerely, without a second thought. “I’ll see you here.”

    Another one of his cryptic little smiles and Allen was gone, down the aisle and into another one of London’s rare, fine spring days.

…

The waiter who helped Allen to his table did not admit him without first frowning at his crumpled clothes. It was with shame Allen remembered the long drive into London the night before with all his things packed into a single bag and falling asleep without first having dressed out of his clothes. That morning was another mess itself; his visit to the Cathedral was purely on impulse.

    His face went slightly pink and he offered an apologetic smile that was not met. Straightening his hair and collar in the cab may only save him in better company until he could find more suitable clothes. For now, his oversized duffle coat would have to hide the rest of his worn out outfit.

    Tyki and Road sat in the middle of the Goring’s dinning room, the image of royalty: tan, young, and draped in beautiful clothing. Stretched lean as a cat under the dinner table, Tyki looked vaguely uncomfortable. Across from him, Road looked far too pleased by something — Allen didn’t want to know and hoped very briefly the conversation would shift once he sat down. 

   Allen’s acquaintanceship with the Noah began months before his uncle’s sudden intrusion in his life, but to know their intentions were genuine and born from familial love was something new to him. It went unsaid just how far it pushed him out of his element. Any kind of friendship shared with the Noah family was nerve wracking enough, he knew. With all of that in mind, he approached with some deference as the waiter announced him. 

    “Please forgive me, I know I’m late,” he said as he sat down, keeping his eyes down for now. Beside him, true to his character, a cat’s smile drew across Tyki’s face as he watched Allen scoot into his seat. He addressed Road in a pointed effort to ignore the wicked smile Tyki wore with _far_  too much ease. It belonged on him, that cheshire grin. 

    Turning to Road was only slightly better. Allen was aware of the siblings’ unholy attachment to him, but like many things concerning the Noah family, he ignored it in favor of his sanity. And sometimes, his _bodily health_. 

    “Don’t worry about it,” Road consoled. She sat with with her legs bent under her on the chair, chin in hand. She extended one daintily gloved hand to Allen to take it in hers. “You’re here now, that’s all that matters."

    Tyki’s voice came to him like smoke from some deep shadow, “What kept you, garoto?” 

    Lies passed behind Allen’s eyes in wild secession. “The Cathedral caught my eye, and I had to pay a visit.” He settled on the truth. There was no point in lying now, he believed. They’d find out eventually, anyway. His whereabouts were their business now, weren’t they? 

    Allen watched their eyebrows quirk up. The butterknife Tyki absentmindedly fiddled with dropped to the table with a mute thump against the table cloth. 

    “Oh?” 

    “I didn’t know you were _religious_ ,” Road said with some horror.

    “Not in the least,” Allen countered. He took a careful sip from his water. His eyes fell to the menu sitting in front of him, and he finally picked it up. “Like I said, it caught my eye.” 

    “Hm,” Road intoned. She looked over the table at Tyki, who met her gaze with a straight face. Allen knew, however, that something must have passed between them. “Never mind that. I brought you some clothes, Allen, so you can dress out of those _rags_.” 

        “Yes, can’t have you running all over town looking like  _that_.” 

    Road let out a short, shrill laugh. Allen prickled, but kept his eyes on the menu. “No, I suppose not. Thank you, Road, that was very thoughtful of you.” 

    She tsked sharply at that and reached for his hand again. He put the menu down to look at her properly, both to appease her and to adhere to his own etiquette. “ _Quit it with tha_ _t_ _, Allen,_ ” she complained childishly. "We’re  _family_ , you can drop the formality.”

    “Ah. Yes, well-“ He retracted his hand very quickly, desperate to look anywhere but at them. He felt caught between two great, lean beasts of prey with their sights on him, vulnerable as he was in both place and circumstance. “You aren’t wrong.” 

    Road had the maturity it took to look near regretful and not outright petulant, but in the end she still pouted. “Uncle Neah just wants to take care of you, Allen,” she said quietly. 

    Allen had a lot to say about that, pent-up  _years’_ worth. Still, he kept his lips pressed together and eyes firmly on the menu, of which he read nothing but stared at to remain calm. “Of course,” he said shortly. “Of course he does.” 

…

Allen only had to play his part until lunch ended, after which he was released from Road’s claws and allowed back up to his room. He followed the footman awkwardly after offering to carry some of the shopping bags himself, not knowing what to do with his hands. Finally left alone, he collapsed into his bed spread-eagled.

    His residence here in London wasn’t exactly voluntary, but was certainly posed as his uncle’s _suggestion_ , those of which should rarely go opposed. The chauffeur that arrived late at night outside his apartment was difficult to avoid as well.          

    Only the day before, Allen led another life with problems not much unlike the ones he found here in London. He had finally begun to truly settle down in Manchester, where he’d lived and worked among his friends after they had finished their studies. Allen himself hadn’t attended college, but instead worked various odd jobs after landing in Manchester. _Landed_ , he’d say, because it wasn’t particularly his choice, but where Cross had last taken him. At twenty-one, Allen felt he’d passed his chance to attend school - the very thought of which put him off - and opted to work instead. Three years had passed since then, long enough to have perfected burying that regret. 

    Neah had offered to pay for his tuition the last time they spoke. _Anywhere,_  he’d said, but London would be ideal. 

    Allen’s heart stuttered over the memories of their last meeting. He rolled over in bed with the sheets clutched in one hand until he was wrapped within them in a cocoon. Time, before a luxury, was now ample and he didn’t intend to waste it. He’d set out to do what he hadn’t before in Manchester and find some place in the world for himself, something small, unassuming. Something he _liked_. 

    The bar he’d worked in last, before he was carted away to London, had been his favorite job so far, but his hands always itched for the piano that sat perched in the midst of the tables. He played some nights, but it wasn’t enough to satiate him. Nor enough to honor his memories of Mana and those years of piano lessons, those first few sitting on his father’s lap and the last sitting at it alone, little body dwarfed by the enormous piano, as Mana laid in his sickbed.  

    Slowly, Allen’s eyes shut. In the pool of early Spring light spilling across his bed, he napped away into the afternoon.

...

Allen’s new cashmere jumper tickled slightly at his neck as he sat quietly in his pew, idle eyes on the nave. It smelled of nothing but clean laundry, not cigarettes, not the sweat of sleep, nor of home, now far away that morning. The care taken to achieve this was as unpolished but earnest as a schoolboy’s.

    During his travels, Allen’s own benevolence instilled in him, while still only in the cusp of adolescence, the reverence with which one should approach a place as holy as a church. A similar idea was encouraged by Cross, no less, whose tolerance for the church grew wearier and wearier the longer Allen knew him, but whose appreciation for beauty never wavered. While dogma may not have appealed to Allen then as it did not now, age did continue to inspire a respect for places of worship, his own dedication or understanding irrelevant. The Westminster Cathedral, with its imposing red-brick face and intimate chapels, didn’t fail to arouse these feelings in him, and it was his Sunday best he wore to mass that wet Spring morning.

    When the congregation stood, Allen followed but didn't join in their hymns or prayers, not for want of disrespect, but for lack of experience. As beautifully as their singing rang in his ears, Allen simply didn't know the words well enough to join the chorus. Instead, he focused his attention on the deep, forgiving intonation of the priest as it boomed through the aisles and sat alone with the weight of a gold-gilded prayer book in his lap. Allen thumbed through its fine, worn pages, head bowed, heart malleable in all the ways of one homesick.

    As the crowd upped and dispersed from their seats, Link parted from the mass of them a pale figure clad in black, demanding of Allen’s attention. Before he could pull up a smile, Allen caught sight of the white collar at Link’s neck. His mind went oddly, carefully blank for a moment, eyes on the stark little square of fabric beneath the bob of his Adam’s apple. Above it, Link’s jaw held itself taut and his dark eyes seemed troubled, but he still inclined a curt greeting in his direction. Allen came back to himself and for now ignored his uncomfortable look in favor of politeness. 

    “Good morning - Walker, was it?’ Link said as he met with him on their way out the door. "Did you enjoy the service?”

    “Walker, yes. But, uh-! Pease call me Allen," he corrected, abashed. "I did enjoy myself, thank you.” 

    “Having such a beautiful place to worship certainly helps things to come alive, doesn’t it?” Link said with a graceful wave of his hand through the air. An appreciative laugh from Allen softened the look of discomfort marring Link’s fine features a moment before, his brow softening and his smile subtle, effortless. Allen thought perhaps he wasn’t aware of it.

    “I find myself feeling the same way,” he agreed. They began to move with the crowd nearer to the doors where the chilly air nipped at their cuffs. Link wore a long coat over the black suit jacket of his uniform, and Allen a new heavy, fur-hooded parka. “I’ve been to my fair share of places of worship all over the world, but I think the cathedral will remain one of my favorites. But maybe I’m being biased, this is home, anyway.”    

    “All over the world?” Link asked. The troubled haze of his expression had completely disappeared then, his eyes an illuminous shade of brown when Allen could see them in the candlelight as they passed through it on their way out. Their intensity struck Allen as innately intelligent. “What do you do that requires so much travel?”

    “My uncle dragged me around Europe as a child. A member of the clergy himself, actually.” Allen motioned toward Link’s clerical collar. 

    “Oh?” He motioned toward it self-consciously.         

    "Mhm. Taught me a lot, anyway.” Allen realized he might be saying too much then, and finished lamely, "I learned to enjoy it, made a lot of friends.” 

    “What do you find yourself doing in London now?” 

    Here, Allen suddenly found himself hesitant to indulge Link, who, pressed neatly into his uniform was so obviously an educated man himself. His own lack of education or official profession never bothered him so much before. 

    “I’m a pianist,” he said simply, not looking at Link. 

    They stood on the steps of the Cathedral at last, the sky heavy and dark with clouds overhead. The rest of the congregation filed past and dispersed into the plaza, blocky dark shapes in their heavy coats. 

    “A man dedicated to the arts, very admirable," he said earnestly. 

    Again Link elicited a charming laugh from Allen, whose cheeks were growing pink from the cold. In the beat of silence between them, a crackle of some intolerably warm emotion tickled at Allen’s throat until he heard himself saying, into the nipping-cold air of the morning, “You wouldn’t mind continuing this over a cup of coffee, would you? I found a lovely place nearby.” 

    Link’s gaze flashed away for a second, past Allen to the blue-glass sea of office windows around them. When the same troubled look from before clouded over his fine features, Allen was quick to correct himself. 

    “Unless you’re busy, of course, I wouldn’t want to keep you,” he demurred, nosing into his scarf in a bid to hide from his embarrassment. 

    “No, you wouldn’t be.” Link shook his head, as if exasperated with himself. “A cup of coffee sounds excellent in this cold, thank you.” 

    Allen’s heart swelled back to its proper size at that, and he led Link away from the Cathedral's doors. 

…    

“I’m sorry, could you - ?”

    The concepts of theology weighed heavy on Allen like some old, dusty tome, but it was with laughter that he sought Link’s help in understanding it. Amused himself, Link cracked a pleased smile as he set down his coffee mug. They sat in a coffee shop after a short venture through the city, where it was warm enough to shed their coats and knees close enough to knock under the table.    

    Embarrassed but adamant in defending himself, Allen let out through a smile, “It’s hard to follow!” 

    “I don’t blame you,” Link assured. He sipped from his drink again, eyed the biscotti between them and set one on the saucer of his cup. “It might be easier if you clear your head of anything you might already think of the spirit.” 

   “Okay,” he nodded. Allen settled his cheek in his palm, willing to entertain Link but beginning to find himself genuinely curious. 

    “Your spirit is - _partless_. Everything it does, it does with its whole being.”

    “And what does it do?”

    “Good question,” Link nodded, pleased. He pulled his biscotti out of his coffee and took a bite. “It knows, it loves, it animates the body.” *

    As Allen sat to ponder this, Link checked his watch. “It’s getting to be around that time, I’m afraid.” 

    “Oh, already?” Allen hopped out of his seat as Link stood and shrugged on his coat. 

    “I trust I’ll see you again?” 

    “So long as I’m in town, I don’t see why not.” 

    “I’m glad to hear it.” And that he was - Link was buoyant with the satisfaction of having made an acquaintance. Especially so one such as Allen, who in the last hour never failed to respond with something that sent the cogs in his mind to work harder than anything else had managed to in a long while. 

    Though they stood as hardly anything more than strangers, he couldn’t help but to peer at this boy — dressed first in rags and now in a cashmere turtleneck of the most delicate gray — with curiosity. Where his textbooks fulfilled him with the knowledge he was hungry for, the creature before him reminded him of the world past the crowded margins of his books, the never ending revolving of it all that he shut himself away from. The brightness of one’s eyes and timber of their voice, the warmth of their body; human qualities Link found were not as difficult to navigate as he’d felt in the past, but were admirable feats of beauty and resilience. 

    As if it was the most natural thing in the world to part ways with, Link said with a strange seriousness, “It was very nice speaking to you again, Allen. I do hope you find a fulfilling role in our community.” 

    Allen rolled his lips into a smile he fought to bite back. He’d felt unsteady back then, still skirting the hall of the nave as Link filed past, but quickly fell into step with him as they spoke until he eventually forgot about it all, words leaving him like honey and every sense heightened. He supposed it was Link's profession that compelled Allen to tell the truth (as much as he could, anyway) and confiding in him came easily.

    “Likewise,” he returned in earnest. He couldn’t help but let the smile slip past, but ducked away, tucked some hair behind an ear self-consciously.

    They parted ways at the coffeehouse door until Link turned on his heel only a yard or two away.

    “Allen—” he started, reaching for his elbow.

    “Did you forget something?” 

    “No - yes, in a way. As I recall, you said earlier you’re a pianist?” 

    Allen cocked his head to the side in question, curious. “I did. How come?” 

    “Well, the Saint Vincent de Paul primary school has just lost its music instructor to paternity leave on short notice. If the position interests you, I could put a word in.” 

   Allen leaned in, incredulous. “ _You’d really do that?_ ”  

    “Given we’re only just acquaintances, yes. You seem,” Link deliberated only for a split second, eyes darting away, “ _goodnatured_  and quick to learn, which I find helpful when working with children.” 

    Allen couldn’t help but stand in thoughtful silence, surprised, touched. To have struck so lucky, to have been in the right place at the right time was a first for him, and one he hesitated to accept out of sheer surprise.

    “You’ll have to go through an interview and background checks like everyone else, of course,” he reasoned further as Allen stalled, until finally he huffed a laugh.

    “Neither of which I would mind. As long as you think I’m suited for the position, I’ll be there.” 

    “I do.” Link reached into his satchel for his journal and offered Allen a pen. “Could I have your—?” 

    “Oh, _yes,_ ” he breathed emphatically. He took it eagerly to scribble his name and phone number into a blank page near the back. “I’m staying at the Goring, just ask for Campbell and leave me a message if you can’t get to me."

    “I’ll contact you soon if anything comes of it,” he said as Allen handed it back. 

    “Sounds too good to be true,” Allen said, smile dizzyingly true. He shoved his hands into his pockets, curled his toes in an effort to ground himself before he made a fool of himself there on the sidewalk, in front of this — this _angel._  No other word fit better in that moment, hasty judgement damned. 

    The gold of Link’s braid stood out against his somber outfit, the gray city and gray clouds. His lips moved, but Allen heard nothing but static he felt unbothered to shake off. Took in the seriousness of Link’s expression as he spoke, how his demeanor hardened into the more self-assured man he’d first met.

    “—regardless, I’m there often enough to help you with the children.”

    Allen nodded blindly. “Okay, that sounds good,” and before he lost his nerve or shame blackened it he offered his leather-gloved hand, “Thank you, Link, I really mean it.”

    “No need to thank me yet.” He took his hand with a firm nod of assurance. “I’ll talk to you later.”

    “Of course, goodbye.” Allen gave a short wave as Link bade him a good day and continued his way to campus.

...    

“ _Ouch._ ” Timothy peered down at his shoe, where Link was bent over to tie his shoelaces. A little too tightly, it seemed. “I can do it, I can do it.”

    “Right,” Link said dismissively. He stood and straightened himself up, grabbing instead for the boy’s coat where it hung on the hook near his cubby.

    What’s up with you, two-dots?”

    “That’s _rude_ ,” he chastised. “And no way to address you elders. Let Emilia catch you and you’ll get an earful.”

    “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t _dare_ do it within earshot of her.” Timothy shot a cheeky tongue out at Link. He shrugged into his coat but batted away at Link’s hands when he tried to zip it up for him. “I’m not a baby, let go.”

    “Of course you aren’t,” Link said under his breath, nearly exasperated - with himself or the boy, he didn’t dwell long enough to tell. “How could I forget?”

    At three in the afternoon, after his own classes, Link found himself at the elementary school as usual to help with getting the children home. Truth be told, he _had_ noticed he’d grown distracted in the hours between his morning with Allen and then.

    He’d turned their conversation over and over in his mind, analyzing it, mulling over parts he’d missed the first time. To be compelled to visit the chapel with guidance in mind was easy enough to understand, as Link’s profession had required very much of the same from him, but to have changed as he did from one day to the next was enough to pique his interest. The name he gave as well — “Campbell,” struck Link as odd, as it wasn’t the one he introduced himself with.

  A life of traveling from one country to the next might have explained his worn out clothes, vagabond as he was, but it wasn’t reason enough to explain the mysteries of Allen’s past. An untethered background could explain Allen’s yearning for roots, as he’d implied, but beyond that Link couldn’t quite venture. His earnestness, however, was enough to earn Link’s attention. As booth a seminarian and a man with a childhood of similar circumstance, he knew what belonging to something - or some _one_ \- might mean.

    Regardless, Link thought as he guided Timothy through the school doors and out to the waiting bus, Allen’s oddities did not have him doubting his character. He might be young and feeling lost, but somewhere in him Link felt he was worth his time, a compassionate, helping hand. The simple satisfaction, strange as it was, of making a new acquaintance was enough to wish to talk to him again.

    Link set his thoughts aside for now. Coursework and preparations for dinner waited for him at Allen Hall. 

**Author's Note:**

> The Westminster Cathedral, the St. Vincent de Paul Primary School, the Goring where Allen is staying (you can take a look at his room [here](https://www.google.co.uk/maps/@51.4974782,-0.1455065,2a,75y,327.84h,72.78t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sIzQP5mQozsAAAAQo8bFyaw!2e0!3e2!7i13312!8i6656) on Google Maps), and Link’s seminary at Allen Hall are all real places in London. I took some liberties with a few things, but for the most part I wanted it all to be as realistic as possible. Link is 28, maybe a little over a year from finishing his studies and ultimately being ordained, and Allen is 24 and newly moved back to London. And if you know your fanfic, Allen's circumstances are (heavily) inspired by nea_writes' _Habits_ , one of my favorites.
> 
> I hope someday, once this is finished, I can read it through and notice some improvements in my writing if I’m so blessed. In the meantime, I’m just going to focus on making this a good story. I can’t promise any regularity, but I can say it’ll be finished. You can expect each chapter to be 6k-8k as well. I hope you all enjoy it :) 
> 
> dimrooms @ twitter  
> yullens @ tumblr


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